


28:  The Songs You've Punched Are Dreaming

by light_source



Series: High Heat [28]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:04:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- You’re a romantic, Zeets, says Brian - and guys like you are the most dangerous people in the world. You got enough good intentions to pave a six-lane interstate to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	28:  The Songs You've Punched Are Dreaming

The big windows on the north side of the bedroom are blanked white with fog, and the crackling sound of the coffeemaker, piping out boiling water, drifts upstairs from the kitchen.

Tim’s stretched out, one arm folded behind his head, ankles crossed, and Zito’s curled up against his side, sleepy, his arm thrown over Tim’s chest and his face buried in Tim’s neck. Tim’s got his other hand in Zito’s hair, stroking absent-mindedly.

\- Don’t take this wrong, says Tim, snuffling in Zito’s hair, his breath warm on Zito’s scalp - but you smell funny.

Zito twists his head, his eyes suddenly sharp, to look at Tim.

\- Like fruit, says Tim. - A peach? Grapes. Whatever. I noticed it last night.

\- Yeah, well, says Zito. He sits up, bringing his knees up to his chest. He reaches over to the nightstand for his mug, takes a sip of coffee and rolls it around in his mouth.

\- I took a drink in the face last night, Zito says at length. - After you came up to bed. I wasn’t gonna bring it up.

\- What the fuck?  Tim rolls onto his side, propping himself on one elbow so he’s facing Zito.

\- Brian, says Zito. - He’s been riding me lately. Not sure why.  Fan Fest mighta pushed him over the edge.   All that coke, he says drily - probably didn’t help.

\- It was late.  Pretty much everybody had gone home, says Zito. - I was in the dining room, closing up the French doors - somebody’d opened them, I guess the smoke was getting pretty thick down there - and I turned around and Brian was right behind me. He just kind of appears, like he’s a ninja or something. Scared the shit out of me.

The whole day had been typical Brian, Zito reflects to himself - witty, offbeat, silly even, and then, _boom,_ the blackjack.

\- It’s been going on awhile, says Zito aloud to Tim. - Since Hawaii, actually - you were there, he was taking some pretty nasty shots at me. But it got a lot worse yesterday - I walked out on a game of squash, and things kind of spiraled downward from there.

//

Zito and Wilson had started playing squash last year, when Zito’d found out Brian had played in high school in New Hampshire. Whenever the team was in town, they’d played after day games at the Bay Club in North Beach, where Zito’s a member. Now it's a ritual. They play like dervishes and afterwards they hang out in the sauna to sweat out whatever’s left. Then they walk down Greenwich Street to the Fog City Diner for buck-apiece happy-hour oysters - Brian always insists on paying. They spar about who played better, knock back some Fat Tires and two orders of french fries and call it dinner.

This game is their first match of the new season, on a Friday morning because that’s how things’ve rolled with everyone getting into town just in time for Fan Fest. Zito’s already warmed up by running to the Bay Club from his place in the Marina, and he’s pleased, when he gets there early, to have beaten his last best time. But when he lets himself in the polycarbonate doors, Brian’s already on the court, softening up a competition-level double-yellow ball.

\- New season, new racquet, Zeets, says Brian by way of acknowledgment, without turning around. - It’s my namesake brand, a Wilson Hyper-Hammer 120, carbon-fiber frame, hope you’ve got your goggles on, motherfucker, cause here she comes.

Zito dodges sideways just in time to hear the ball whistle by his ear, and then without further ado they start hammering, Brian serving up the first game without even the courtesy of a racquet flip. Brian’s specialty, Zito remembers, is the rail, a long drive-shot close to the wall that’s difficult to return, let alone volley. For the first couple of sets, the effort of figuring out Wilson’s timing and his own response takes away everything but Zito’s breath, and he finds himself banging off the walls, swearing, sweating.

This, of course, is what Zito loves about squash - the intensity of it blows every other thought out of his head.

Then, in the third and fourth sets, things start to get weird. Whenever he wins a point, Wilson celebrates by leaping into the air, his arms in a V, screaming as though he’s having a psychotic break. Zito’s used to a certain amount of theatrics from Brian, but this is over the top. And then Brian starts insisting on dominating the T, occupying it, inserting himself between Zito and his shot. He interferes so persistently that Zito has to call for a let - a replay of the point - three points out of five.

Finally, in the fourth set, when Zito’s about to make a shot, Wilson clocks him with a body-check that knocks Zito down and sends him sprawling across the court and hip-first into the tin.

 _\- Stroke!_ Zito shouts, scrambling back up to his feet, claiming the point as a forfeit for interference. He can feel the friction burn on his calf from his slide across the maple floor, and there's a knot forming around the muscles in his hip. But he walks back to the center of the court without inspecting his wounds, unwilling to give Brian the satisfaction of knowing he's hurt.

He raises his eyebrows at Brian, who’s not looking at him.

\- What the fuck, Wilson? Zito says quietly.

\- Oh, come on, Zeets, says Wilson - I’ll give you a let on that, but that was no fuckin’ stroke. You’ll do anything for a point except earn it, you pussy. Just play the fuckin’ game, will ya?

Zito stands there, not moving.

\- Come on, asshole, Brian continues, killing the ball by pounding it into the corner, - be a good girl and replay the point.

In an instant, the surge of rage that boils up in Zito’s gut surprises him. His throat feels like it’s strangling; he focuses his eyes on his racquet, twirling it around in his hand, adjusting the notch between his thumb and index finger.

He forces himself to remember how it’s done - what it feels like to square up and move forward and throw the next pitch after someone’s lit him up.

\- I’m outta here, Zito says, settling his shoulders, pointing his racquet head at the floor.

\- What the fuck? Jesus. Wilson turns to watch him walk towards the door.

\- I don't believe this, says Wilson. - You quitting?

Zito lets the court door close quietly behind him only because its hydraulic hinges give him no choice.

//

Brian catches up to him in the Bay Club’s sauna. Zito’s just tossed a cup of water on the heating stones and he's stretched himself out on the bench, favoring his hip, where a bruise the size of his hand is already greying his skin.

Zito opens his eyes to see Brian looming over him, blue eyes wide, his face red.

\- How’s my favorite quitter?

\- Fuck off and die, Brian, says Zito.

He closes his eyes and sinks back into the trance created by the heat, the slats of the cedar bench striping his legs and back with warmth, the superheated air searing his lungs.

When he opens his eyes half an hour or so later, Brian’s still sitting across from him, silent, watching him with those angry-dog eyes.

\- This is the part where you tell me what’s bugging you, Brian, says Zito, propping himself up on his elbows. Suddenly his head hurts . - Or we could walk over to Grant & Green and get drunk. Those are your choices.

\- I’ve got nothing to say, says Brian, standing up. - And G&G doesn’t open till two, so getting drunk’ll have to wait. Unless you got a better idea.

//

\- You still got your dad and your original elbow ligament, Barry, says Brian, - so don’t talk to me about life being complicated.

He and Zito have wound up on bar stools at Grumpy’s on Vallejo Street near Battery, a bar that only ever closes in the middle of the night, and where the logo is a bulldog with a fern frond in its mouth, a swipe at the ‘fern bars’ that were hot when the place was established. Grumpy’s styles itself as a dive but it can’t be, not really, not when half the Channel 14 news team’s there eating Reubens and arguing in Spanish, and two Alioto ex-wives are sitting in the corner lunching on spinach salads. What is divelike about Grumpy’s are the prices - still a buck-fifty for a draft Bud - and the all-day breakfast menu. And there’s the jukebox, which offers the complete works of The Captain and Tennille.

Zito and Wilson have skipped lunch and gone directly to beer and shots.

Barry's playing with their empty shot-glasses like he’s rehearsing a magic trick, and Brian’s got a high-tide line of Guinness foam on his carefully trimmed mustache.

\- I don’t see it, Brian, I just don’t, says Zito. - You and Dallas -

\- Dallas and myself, says Brian, - are in an entirely different category. From what you're doing.

\- You guys go on vacation together. You’re seen together downtown. You talk about each other to the press, for fuck’s sake, says Zito.

Brian spins back and forth, doing quarter-turns on his barstool like a nine-year-old, until he stops abruptly to face Zito. Then he steeples his fingers as though he’s a professor tactfully explaining a difficult concept to a dim student.

\- For one thing, Dallas and myself aren’t on the same team, says Brian, - we’re not even in the same league. It makes a difference, _yes it does,_ he says, shaking his head preemptively as Zito opens his mouth to object.

\- You, Zeets, have not observed this teammates-are-off-limits distinction in your romantic career, having entered repeatedly into questionable alliances for unquestionably good reasons of the heart, Brian continues.

Zito rolls his eyes.

\- So maybe you don't get the implications of what you're doing, says Brian, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head to the side. _\- Or maybe you just don't care._

\- Suffice it to say, Zeets, Brian goes on, almost with a flourish, - that your proclivities are well-known. And so are the consequences. The bust-up of the pitching horsemen of the Oak-pocalypse is reputed not to have stemmed entirely from the front office’s perceived financial concerns, if you catch my drift.

Zito folds his arms across his chest. For a moment, he considers how deeply satisfying it would be to punch Brian so hard he’d fall off that barstool and maybe break something, like his right arm, just in time for spring training.

\- When do we get to the part where any of this is your business? asks Zito.

\- You’re a romantic, Zeets, and guys like you are the most dangerous people in the world. You got enough good intentions to pave a six-lane interstate to hell. 

Zito stares, mesmerized, wondering if just breaking that tattooed finger alone would be enough to satisfy him. 

\- The reality of the situation, Brian continues, - is that Timmy is the future of this team. He takes a slug of his beer. - You’re not, and I’m not. Bonds is gone and he left a Bonds-shaped hole in the franchise. Matty C’s good, he’s a horse but he’s not a patch on our Timmy. _Nothing as special as Timmy is in the pipeline._

\- And anything that jeopardizes the team is _my fucking business_ , Brian concludes. - It’s _your_ fucking business too, Zeets, no pun intended.

\- What exactly are you afraid of, Brian? asks Zito.

\- I think you know, Zeets.  This may be San Francisco, and yeah, we'll all agree to agree that sexuality is a spectrum, _wanh wanh wanh_ , but if and when word gets out about this, he's finished.  I can just see the headline about the trade in the paper, the guys on SportsCenter snarking about it behind their hands, all the blogging rosterbators screaming  _what the fuck_ , and it doesn't matter, _he's outta here._

Brian leans back, drumming his hands with the music against the brass trim on the lip of the bar. He signals the bartender, who's down at the other end humping a plastic dishwasher crate of glasses, for another round of drinks. She pulls them two more Guinnesses and sets the shots of Jameson’s down deliberately, then fades away without meeting their eyes.

\- I know what went down with you and Haren, says Brian, - Dallas’s filled me in on what I hadn’t already heard about. You guys were legend, you two, you were the biggest open secret in the league.

\- And fact is, you guys got away with it because MLB got the happy ending they wanted. Danny went and got himself married. If there’s such a thing as going back into the closet, that was it.

\- Now everybody’s watching you, Zeets, he concludes - you’re standing in front of the closet. The hundred-and-twenty-six million-dollar man, the Bay Area’s most eligible bachelor, they could make a Ken doll in honor of you and call it ‘Marry Me Barry.’ What’s it gonna be?

\- I wonder how much of this is about you, Brian, says Zito carefully, after a long pause, - and what it feels like to be you? And Dallas?

\- Not a concern, says Brian crisply, as though he’s been waiting for this question. - Cause neither one of us gives that much of a shit about baseball.

Zito can’t help the look of incredulity that spreads over his face.

\- Yeah, baseball’s a good gig, Brian continues, - no question about it, and I’d be damn sorry to walk away from it. But I know how ugly things can get in life, how out-of-control, and how fast. I grew up not being able to count on anything. So did Dallas.

\- This great baseball life we’re leading is like watching the circus - it’s fantastic, yeah, it’s the greatest show on earth, but in the back of your mind you know they’re gonna pack up and leave town Sunday night, and Monday morning this spot’ll just be a piece of flattened grass. 

\- And besides, Brian continues, - Dallas, Lord bless the boy, is one eccentric homely mo-fo and I’m batshit crazy, so why would anybody care about us? I’m not gonna be on the front of the Wheaties box anytime soon, and Nike’s not on the phone wanting to name a shoe after me. The front office isn’t putting my face on the banners at Third and King.  No Cy Young in my future as far as I can see.

\- I’m a fucking reliever, for God’s sake, with a piece of my own hamstring in my elbow and way too much time on the DL, and I got what, maybe, five more years?

\- And then it’s back to real life, says Brian. - Hope I can remember what it looks like.

Brian sucks down the last of his stout and swipes the foam from his lip with his index finger.

\- Can you believe that somebody’s actually put good clean money in the jukebox to play ‘Muskrat Love’? Brian continues, as Toni Tennille’s gelatinous voice fills the bar.

//

\- The thing about Brian, says Zito to Tim, - is that he wants you to hear him out. So I did.  Till I thought I was gonna puke.

\- Somebody'd queued up a bunch more Captain and Tennille on the juke, Zito goes on, - Brian knows all the words, by the way -  that sobered me up in a hurry. When 'Love Will Keep Us Together' came on and he started singing harmony, I put him in a cab back to whatever hellhole in SoMa he’s rented for this season, and I walked back to my place.

\- That long walk was good, I needed it, Zito continues. - I walked over the hill, through North Beach, had a mocha and sat and read the _Bay Guardian_ at the Caffé Trieste, and it reminded me that there’s a normal, non-Brian-acious world out there. That glute was starting to seize up on me, too, and I needed to stretch it.

\- I know some Captain and Tennille, says Tim, - _Think of me, babe, whenever -_ he pipes, falsetto, until Zito grabs a pillow and smothers him with it, holding him down until he’s choking and laughing at the same time.

When Zito finally releases him, Tim sits up and props his head against the padded leather headboard, his hands folded behind.

\- 'S interesting that Brian's worried about this shit, says Tim, - cause I'm not.  Not anymore, anyway.

Zito feels something inside himself relax.

\- You and me already had this conversation, says Tim.  - And I told you.  When I decide to play, I'm in it.  

\- But I gotta say, he continues, - about Brian's thing about being OK with walking away from baseball, they're gonna have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming, cause I fucking _love_ baseball.  

Tim reaches over and takes Zito's hand, yanks him in, close.  He's smiling.

\- I can't believe you went to the mat for me, you badass motherfucker.  Get over here and claim your prize.

//

From the kitchen, they’ve come back upstairs to bed with the Sunday _Examiner_ , the pot of coffee for Zito, and two plates of haphazardly buttered toast. Tim was horrified that there’s no Coke or Red Bull in the fridge - he’s not crazy about coffee - and nothing like Pop-Tarts or Count Chocula in the cabinet.

\- I’m warning you, Zeets, Tim says, exasperated, staring mournfully at the toast, - this is a crime scene - you have nothing in this house that regular normal people eat for breakfast.

\- You don’t even know how to put the butter on the toast, says Zito, taking a lopsided bite so that he can get some of what’s melting on the edge. - And I have lots of normal-people food, Zito protests, - eggs and toast and jam. Oranges. Coffee.

\- ‘S all right, says Tim, - I’ll stop off at In-N-Out on my way home for supplies and fortifications. There’s other things to do here besides eating breakfast, you know, he says, looking at Zito sideways, a small smile beginning to dawn on him. - Get that fucking newspaper off the bed, he says, - or I'll sing.  He licks his lips.

Zito opens the sports page to the annual Spring Training Preview.

 _\- Some sweet-talking girl comes along / Singing her song,_ Tim starts, and Zito’s on him. The thick wool pile of the Hamedan carpet muffles the sound of the plates falling as they slide off the edge of the bed.

//

What Zito doesn't get around to telling Tim about is what'd happened after the party, when Brian had materialized like a ghost in the frame of the dining-room pass-through.

That’s not to say that Zito's forgotten it.

//

Zito wheels to find Brian standing right in front of him, close enough so that he can feel Brian’s breath, and see the outline of Brian’s chest tattoo,  _In Nomine Patris - in the name of the Father,_ thinks Zito, dimly remembering church _-_ through the open neck of his buttondown shirt.

\- You don’t seem to get it, Zeets, what I was talking about today, says Brian, shaking his head. In fact his whole body is shaking - shimmying, almost - as though he’s a prizefighter waiting to strike.

\- I appreciate the advice, Brian, says Zito, - but I’ve gotta make my own decisions.

Zito sighs. He’s tired, and his head aches, and he had to practically push some of the guys out the front door, they were so coked up and aggressive, ready to fight each other over really important things like who got to go down the steps first.

\- It’s not advice, Barry, says Brian, a sneer in his voice, - it’s reality, and the sooner you wake up and realize that, the better off we’ll all be. Spring training starts Wednesday. This is your chance to put a brake on it. Do the right thing. Whatever you wanna call it. _Just do it, man_ , he says, the scorn dripping from his voice.

\- And if I don’t? says Zito.

 Zito feels the drink splash full force in his face, sweet taste of autumn fruit - pomegranate and blackthorn berry - and a backdraft of alcohol.  It's cold and sticky and it wakes him into something he doesn't understand.

Brian turns on his heel and stalks out the hall, stiff-legged as a tomcat, and slams the front door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Joni Mitchell's song "The Last Time I Saw Richard" (ca 1971).


End file.
